


Open Up

by ISH



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chamber of Secrets, F/M, HP: EWE, Parseltongue, Post-War, tomione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ISH/pseuds/ISH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione comes back to Hogwarts for an assignment as an Unspeakable, but finds herself sidetracked and drawn to the Chamber of Secrets - where a storm awaits her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Up

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing but the plot is mine.

Having made sure Moaning Myrtle was nowhere to be seen in the first floor girls’ bathroom, she held the little speaker up to the faucet bearing the snake marking and pressed play. It had been a nightmare to get the dictaphone to work inside Hogwarts, but not even close to a challenge compared to the effort it had taken to convince Harry to let her record him speaking the magic words in Parseltongue.

 _Open up_ .

The words hissed from the speaker, giving Hermione goose bumps up her arms, past her neck and all over her scalp. She only knew what the hissing meant because she had been told. She had no way of distinguishing the individual words, and had learned the hard way that Parseltongue was not a language that could be taught. She did not feel confident, or lucky enough, to attempt to reproduce Ron’s lucky guess at the Battle of Hogwarts - she needed to be sure she would get in.

Something clicked into place deep within the bowels of Hogwarts, and the Chamber opened. She rubbed her arms to rid herself of her goose bumps, to no avail, and climbed inside.

Every bone in her body and every instinct drilled into her by Moody, by Harry and by the war told her to stay in the shadows, sneak between the snake statues, stay vigilant, and keep her wand raised. She did none of these things as she stepped into the middle of the chamber and knelt at the pool of water that lay between her and the statue of Salazar Slytherin. The empty skull of the now toothless basilisk seemed to stare at her from where it lay, moss green rather than bone white due to years of damp and algae since Voldemort flooded the Chamber during the battle. The water had drained now, and apart from occasional debris, the cavernous space rose around her unchanged.

The pool lay inky black and mirrored glossy before her, old Salazar regarding her twice with hollow eyes. She traced the edge of the pool, searching for the steps she knew were there to take her to his foot. But the water needed to go first, and that was why she was kneeling so near the water that her knees had got wet. She moved back just a fraction and whispered a spell that turned the surface in front of her to ice. It was as black as the water, but she knew it would hold. She had practiced for hours on the Black Lake. Still, it was with caution that she set her right foot down on the ice, and then her left. Right, left, right, left, wand pointed just in front, conjuring the ice as she walked towards the point where old Salazar’s long hair met the water, just below his right ear. Her right, not his.

She climbed onto one of the stony tendrils of hair, the ice melting away as she stopped casting. It didn’t matter. She cast a light sticking charm on her boots and started climbing towards the nose. She would go in through the mouth, the same way the basilisk had travelled. The hollow eyes, while easier to reach, she suspected might be too narrow, and the Chamber of Secrets was no place to be stuck when the only person that knew where you might be was on the other side of the world.

She had lied to Harry when he questioned her. “Why would you ever want to go back there?”, he’d said. She’d shown him her fake ministry forms and asked that he trusted her not to take any unnecessary risks. Surely he knew that she was already treading very close to breaking the vow of secrecy she had taken when she was sworn into the Unspeakables. It didn’t sit right with her to lie to her best friend, but something had beckoned her, tore her away from her real assignment at Hogwarts, and she was to be damned if she didn’t find out what.

The goose bumps came anew when she lowered herself onto old Salazars tongue. There was a draft, a whisper of air that got the blame. Shivering, she continued toward it, crouching, thankful that the passage was not so small as to demand crawling.

The whispering draft beckoned her further in, and she went. Faint light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, making a Lumos unnecessary. She kept her wand out, steadying herself with her left hand while tracing cracks in the wall with her wand. She was going round and up, thinking for a moment that the chamber couldn’t possibly be under the lake or she would be swimming with Grindylows and Merpeople by now. But then again, perhaps there was a hollow hill under the water that this all resided in. Who was she to know?

She shrugged and remembered that she was Hermione Granger, after all. Submerged hills be damned, she wasn’t here for nothing. She would find out. Pressing on, she reached the end of the tunnel that opened up into the basilisk’s lair. Long shed scales were strewn across the floor mingled with the remains of the long dead basilisk’s even longer dead victims. She chose not to consider what or who they might have been. Instead she proceeded to assure herself that this _was_ the first time she set foot in this particular part of the Chamber. She couldn’t explain why she knew there was a lever behind one of the peculiar little dragon statues on the other side of the room. Or how she knew that it would let the water out of the cistern in the main chamber and reveal the rest of old Salazar. Neither could she explain why she kept calling him that.

Since arriving at Hogwarts about a month ago she’d pulled that lever almost every night. She had done exactly as she had today, and she had done it over and over, except today was no dream. Her better judgement reminded her that no good could come of this, but the unashamed curiosity that coursed through her veins and the possibility that she just might still be dreaming won out and she pulled the lever without hesitating.

She didn’t know what would happen next. Her dreams always ended with the powerful rush of air that followed, and that was how she knew this could not be one of them. Gusts of warm, dry air tore at her hair and her robe, pushing, pulling her out of the basilisk's lair and back into old Salazar’s throat. The whispers carried on the wind were loud and insistent, seductive, persuasive, and yet she was unable to comprehend what they were saying. They tugged her through the passage, covering her with goose bumps, their words always just out of reach.

The gust of whispers howled out of old Salazar’s mouth in one enormous exhalation, as if releasing a breath held for far too long. She stumbled onto his granite tongue and kept herself from falling by holding onto one of his front teeth. She did not fancy having the statue vomit her onto the slick floor of the cistern below. Wind at her back, she sank to her knees and looked over the edge. Whispering still, the wind tugged at her locks and obscured her view. There was an eagerness to it that she knew she shouldn’t find appealing, but the grin it evoked only got bigger when she realised she was relieved that old Salazar had opted for underwear when creating his statue.

The wind engulfed her as she cast Wingardium Leviosa on her boots and levitated herself to the bottom. The way it enveloped her, caressing her, was playful and flirtatious. On a whim she headed for the steps leading up and out instead, and the wind turned into furious, howling gusts in a heartbeat. It threatened the stability of her spell and sent harsh sparks along her skin. Ever the scientist, she returned to her original course and it calmed, tracing happy little loops instead. She found that just the thought of leaving set it off after that.

“Fine”, she said to the wind. “Have it your way”. Against better judgement she lowered herself down to the floor, peering at the dark doorway between old Salazar’s gigantic feet.

“Lumos”, ensured that she wasn’t fumbling in darkness, but she found once more that she didn’t need it for long. As the narrow corridor opened up into a small, perfectly square room, torchlight bathed the walls. Hermione frowned at the flickering fire that emitted both warmth and light and reminded herself that being submerged for years didn’t mean a magical torch had to stop burning. She sighed and approached the steps leading up to the pedestal in the middle of the room.

The wind had calmed to a breeze, but she could still feel it caressing her, stroking her hair, swirling around her legs. It was mild now, warm and gentle, and it gave her shivers up and down her spine. They should be creepy crawly shivers; the kind that a basilisk’s lair should evoke, but that wasn’t the case. They were pleasant, almost sensual, and affected her in an entirely different manner; made her smile and close her eyes, and that, however more comfortable, was more worrying than the former.

She pretended she didn’t have an inkling of who - and it was a who, not a what - was causing the wind. She knew deep down that she would not be allowed to leave now, not since pulling that lever, and she knew that she wouldn’t try. Not until she found out whether she was right, whether they had all failed all those years ago.

Upon the pedestal stood a black urn. It didn’t seem to have been affected at all by years of submersion. Its rounded surface was clean and polished; a ceramic representation of the black cistern she had just drained. As the wind danced around her legs, she circled the pedestal and found the urn uniform from all angles. Although it was shiny she could not detect any reflections in the surface.

She didn’t know if it was the wind or her own curiosity that compelled her to touch it. She knew she shouldn’t have before her fingertips connected with the cool surface of the lid, and she knew that she couldn’t have stopped herself if she wanted when she lifted the lid and the wind howled with joy. A yelp escaped her lips when it surrounded her and lifted her off the floor. She let it, her wand hand hanging limp at her side. She had never been fond of flying, but this floating, weightless feeling she could live with. She leaned back and let the wind carry her. The room grew darker around her, and she realised it was not because the torches were faltering. The air had filled with ashes that were carried out of the urn by the wind and they were travelling together over her body, enveloping her in darkness.

Hermione didn’t notice at first when the wind began to take shape. The air had become static with magic so dense you could almost touch it, and she couldn’t say for sure how much of it came from her and how much of it was contained within the wind. It was a magical wind after all, so it must have magic. She was relaxed, more so than she knew was wise, the voice of the long dead Moody gnawing at the back of her mind, urging her to pull herself together and get out of there. She realised that a fair amount of the magic must be hers, or her thoughts wouldn’t be this sluggish, she would care more about what was happening to her. She knew she should care, but could not.

When the wind kissed her, its lips were soft, gentle, waiting for her to invite it in. When she did, it kissed her in a way she’d never been kissed before. It was fierce and all consuming. Closing her eyes, she let it in further, allowing it take from her what it wanted, letting it feed on her magic. She found herself wanting to brace against something, wanting to hold on, and when she lifted her arms to search for some sort of support she found firm shoulders and a neck where there had previously been nothing but wind.

So she held on, and felt the wind grow a body before her. She did not dare open her eyes for fear of what she knew she would see. She kept a firm hold of his neck and her own wand, and threw her head back as he dug his long fingers into her hair and assaulted her neck with his mouth. The whispers no longer came from the wind around her, they came from him. She recognised the chanting for the parseltongue it was and goose bumps covered her anew.

The room was bathing in light again; the swirling ashes that had dimmed her vision had become a man, but still Hermione did not open her eyes. Her eyelids were heavy, but it was fear that glued them shut. Not fear of him as much as fear of what she was doing, of what she had already done. It was no longer the wind that held her up, it was him, and when he pressed her back against the wall, she wrapped her legs around his hips and arched against him to get ever closer. He continued his persistent whispering chant through kisses and bites down her neck and along her collarbone, leaving her panting and breathless.

Her blouse found itself without buttons and fell open to bare her chest to his lips, tongue and teeth. Her open robe was sliding down her shoulders, only held on by her arms around his neck. Her skirt had long since ridden up past her hips, and pooled like a loose belt around her midriff. She found herself thinking that the position in which she found herself was more fitting of a teenager than the near thirty year old woman she was. He chuckled then through his chant, sending waves of white-hot desire through her very being. Hermione didn’t care that he was in her mind then. She suspected that he had been for many weeks, and gasped once more when she felt her underthings disappear. She wanted so badly for him to touch her there, she wished for friction that he would not allow her and groaned in frustration.

The chanting continued, slithering syllable after syllable washing over her with his every kiss, bite and touch, but inside her head echoed words she could understand perfectly.

“ _Open your eyes_ ”.

“No”, she said, turning her head away and squeezing her eyes shut. Tears threatened to escape from the corners of her eyes, though she could not determine to which of the many emotions that roared through her they belonged; a manifestation of the many layered frustration she felt, perhaps.

His arm around her back tightened its grip as the hand in her hair let go and took hold of her chin. She kept her eyes screwed shut, feeling far younger than she was, refusing to let the inevitable happen a moment sooner than it had to.

“ _Look at me, Hermione_ ”.

“I won’t”.

“ _You will_ ”. And she did. Her eyes flew open when he pressed his sex against her entrance. She squirmed, wanted more, but could not turn away from what she saw.

White, smooth skin, thin lips, and piercing, burning, all consuming red eyes. His lips kept moving, parseltongue streaming out as he continued speaking in her mind. Hypnotised by the sheer power, the knowledge contained behind those eyes, she could not look away.

“ _You will look at me when I take you_ ”.

His hand was back in her hair, holding tight, and she could not look away. A wicked smile played on his lips before he kissed her again. She kissed back with an urgency that she had never felt before, and with frightening certainty, she knew that she was lost. She felt her power become his, she felt what an incredible power that was, amplified and multiplied by his very being. Her mind was clouded no more and she would not, could not, give this up. The taking of her life that would certainly follow meant nothing, there was only this.

She mourned the loss of his lips and tongue upon hers when he broke the kiss. His eyes bore into her soul as the parseltongue was replaced with whispered English.

“Look at me, Hermione”.

And she did.

He was not gentle when he plunged into her. She did not expect nor want him to be, and she clawed his back and moaned in time with his thrusts as he fucked her, never allowing her gaze to stray from his burning eyes.

Magic coursed and crackled thick around them, growing ever more intense as she neared her breaking point. When she thought she could take no more, when all she could feel was him inside her body and her mind, the rough stone wall against her back forgotten, his hard grip in her hair but a memory, when she felt like she would drown without release he whispered to her again.

“Come for me Hermione”.

His permission and the soft whisper of her name, her name that she had never expected him to use, was all she needed. Her orgasm washed over her in wave after wave of shameless euphoria. She arched her spine and threw her head back, ripping her gaze away from his all the while releasing a wail of pleasure from her parted lips.

She did not care that he was tracing an intricate pattern with his tongue in the centre of her chest, and she did not care when he bit down on his creation, drawing blood as he hissed something against it and joined her in her climax. She cared only that he did not stop.

The eruption of magic was overwhelming in the true sense of the word. What she felt could only be described as awe, and she revelled in the pure force that flowed around, through, over, _into_ her. She felt it latch onto the area on her chest to which her lover was still attached, and she felt it pool inside her where he had spent his seed.

He raised his head to consider his handiwork, but she slumped against his chest, resting her forehead against his shoulder, exhausted and alive. Sweat glued her hair to her neck and her chest was heaving with deep breaths. The mark he had made strained against her skin and seemed to hum when it came in contact with the heavy magic still lingering in the air. She didn’t protest when the not-quite man put her down on the steps leading up to the pedestal where he had once resided and stood before her.

She looked down at the Morsmordre between her breasts. The skin around it was a furious red, a sharp contrast to the jet black of the mark. It hummed with power and contentment when she touched it. Her fingertips against the still raw skin stung, but there was something else there. A connection, and power - her power, she realised. Disbelief widened her eyes.

“You’re not going to --”

“No”. His voice was only a fraction above a whisper, but commanded all the agency befitting a general.

She stared as he transfigured her discarded pants into a hooded robe and stretched out his spindly hand for her to take. Clutching the front of her robes, she stood, her skirt falling back into place, and lay her hand in his. She did not know when he'd cast the cleaning spell, but she was thankful for it. Before she could lose her balance, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, placed his wand hand over hers, and disapparated them with a crack.

All over Britain, in quiet homes, drafty prison cells and Ministry offices Dark Marks burned to life. In an entirely different part of the world Harry Potter awoke with a throbbing headache and blood on his forehead.

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this, my first Tomione fic. 
> 
> I chose to make him Voldemort simply because I find him more interesting than young Tom. I don't quite know what happens next. I have a few ideas that will probably never see the light of day - at least not as a sequel. In any case, I would much appreciate your comments and opinions.
> 
> Peace!


End file.
